


Better Than Imagined

by GoodFae



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7416727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodFae/pseuds/GoodFae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunny helps Bog crash a birthday party</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birthday Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EndoratheWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndoratheWitch/gifts).



> I'm gifting this to EndoraTheWitch because she writes so much for this fandom and I just adore everything that comes out of her. We're so lucky to have such talent that gives us so much to enjoy!! Thank you EndoraTheWitch!!!!!!!!!

Bog nervously flexed his fingers, staring out the way Sunny had indicated.  “Ye’re sure? That’s her?”

“You don’t forget a woman like that.”

“No, no, I supposed you don’t.” He swallowed his whiskey in one flat gulp. This whole thing had been a mistake.  He should never have let his aunt talk him into something so ridiculous.

“You going over there or what?”

“No.” Bog started back for the mansion that loomed over the glittering nighttime gardens of St-Romes Estate.  He startled when Sunny jumped in front of him.

“Okay, man, here’s the deal. I’m your wing man, right—”

“No!” Bog winced when a passing couple glance their way at his sharp tone.  He wedged one finger down into the tight collar of his tux and tugged.  “Yer just here cause ye already know her.”

“Right. And I was supposed to point her out to you and possibly make an introduction if we could find a way around hiding the fact that we’ve both just crashed her birthday party—”

“Ye did yer job.”

“But you didn’t even talk to her, man!”

“And I’m not gointa.” Because that woman? The one sheathed in glittering black and moved like a siren was not what he’d thought Marianne Summerfield would look like. Where was the cardigan? The tortoise shell glasses too big for her face that she had to push up with one finger? The distinct imprint of fur on her trouser leg where one of her six cats had been sleeping? He’d been expecting a quiet mouse. He’d gotten a dark, burning star. 

A commotion at the poolside drew both him and Sunny to turn around.  The woman he’d been dying to meet for years was snarling at a blond man.  Her low voice floated over the calm pool waters and the string of curses she managed to stick together left him a bit dumfounded—he wasn’t even sure he knew what half of those meant. 

Out of academic curiosity, he was about to ask Sunny for a translation when the woman cranked back an arm and plowed her fist straight across the man’s jaw.  The sound reverberated in the night air for the millisiecond it took his body to splash into the pool. 

Commotion erupted almost immediately—three men jumped into the pool after him, some party-goers were crowding in around her—others were backing away. 

From next to Bog came Sunny’s low, emphatic, “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaayuuuum-did-you-see-that?”

“Aye.” He swallowed, tugging again at the neckline of the tux. The southern Louisiana heat never did quite agree with him.

Like a dark comet, she broke free from the crowd, rushing out into the dark yard, away from the party lights. 

“You going after her?”

“What? No.”

“Come on, Bog.  I have been your friend since we were thirteen.  I have never seen you so interested in a woman in my life. Not even when you met—”

Bog cut him off before he could even finish that statement. For a historian, Bog had little interest in hashing out his own miserable history.  “I’m not interested in her. I’m interested in her brain. Or. Rather. The books. Her books. Not her.  Just the books.” Jaysus, he sounded flustered to his own ears. He’d just…he’d pictured Marianne Summerfield for so long as someone he could relate to.  Someone maybe a little plain, but sweet and intelligent.  And perhaps even lonely too. Every time he read one of her books, he was convinced that they’d hit it off if only they could meet. And maybe that was dangerous—all of that make-believe in his own head.  She was very clearly not the woman he’d imagined in anyway—the sweet creature in his mind would never have decked a man like that. 

Of course, Bog couldn’t say he didn’t like it or find it disturbingly attractive—but she wasn’t for him.  She was as wonderful and as alien to him as a party like this where food came in bite size pieces and the music was from a live five string orchestra. 

“Just…put yourself out there. She’s finally writing a book on a subject you’ve researched and actually wrote about yourself—you’ve wanted to meet her for years—just go now, talk to her cause if you don’t—you’ll regret it forever.”

Sunny wasn’t entirely wrong.  Bog would…worry…not knowing if she was alright. She’d left the party so quickly—he couldn’t imagine she was okay.  And no one else seemed inclined to go after her.  He didn’t _have_ to tell her who he was.  Or why he was there.  He didn’t even have to talk to her…he could just happen to walk by where ever she was.  Sort of like a visual check just to make sure she wasn’t hurting or sad—and if she was? He could tell someone at the party where she was and let them take care of her. 

He nodded. He did love her work—nothing would change that, even if she wasn’t the woman he wanted her to be.  But that wasn’t her fault. He was the one whose lonely mind had made up some fantasy girl that didn’t exist. She didn’t owe him something for that.  And he was, if anything, a scholarly man.  Out of respect for her intelligence and work alone, he needed to make sure she was alright. He owed it to the literary community.

“I’ll meet ye back up here shortly.”

But before Bog could move, Sunny pulled two champagne flutes off a passing tray and pushed them into his hands.

“She’s a classy chick, Bog.  She’s just punched a man—at her own birthday party no less. Trust me, as a man who’s be behind the bar more than he’s ever been in front of it, she needs a drink.”

“I—I guess.” Bog stuttered, uncomfortable at the idea of sharing champagne with her.  She’d expect some sort of conversation and unless he was prattling off facts about history most people could care less about, his idea of conversation was to simply stand back and not say anything.  As soon as he was out of sight from Sunny, he was going to stash these somewhere.

 

Was there anything better in the world than a good book?  Marianne scooched back against the bench, bending her knees up and resting her new, not quite legally purchased book on her legs.  She’d promised herself that she’d read on her birthday.  And here she was.  Reading. 

Granted, she hadn’t really thought she’d be hiding in the solarium wearing this…sparkling travesty of a dress.  This was what she got for letting her sister do the shopping for her.  Marianne had told her black. And black she’d gotten.  Black covered with tiny sparkling gems that literally made her feel like every light at the party was trained on her. 

Just the thought of being at the center of all that attention made her stomach start to ache again.  It was hard to convince her family that she hated attention when she did things like deck her ex-hole fiancé. 

The dipshit. 

So here she was.  Hiding.

At least she had good company, she thought, glancing fondly down at her new book. If it were possible to date books, Marianne would be in a complex hexagon-shaped love affair with this man’s books. She tried to believe that she didn’t care how weird that made her.  How sad and truly pathetic—she was mentally dating a man through his books.  Fear of being disappointed—because she hadn’t yet met a man that didn’t disappoint her—Marianne had kept herself from researching him.

He was probably in his sixties and had coffee stains on his cardigan.  But in her mind? He was—

A step on the slate yanked her attention away from the book and Marianne instinctively clutched it against her chest.  Not in fear, but to cover the way her nipples suddenly pebbled.  She really should’ve insisted her sister buy her a dress that she could wear a bra with. 

He didn’t notice her at first.  He seemed more interested in the architecture of the old iron and glass ceiling that encased the solarium, trapping it’s jungle-like humidity under the dome.  With his head tipped back, she got an eyeful of his long pale neck and the incredible breadth of his shoulders. He was so long and lean otherwise, but for those shoulders incased in a dark tux.

She spotted the champagne glasses in his hands and her night got just a little sadder.

“Dawn’s not here in here. I’m sorry.”

He startled, jerking his gaze to her.  Marianne heart pinged a little at the summer blue of his eyes.  She’d bet her three favorite books that those were what had caught her little sister’s attention.  Coupled with those shoulders and Dawn probably couldn’t resist.  In this alone Marianne envied her sister.  Dawn had no problems with the opposite sex except the problem of trying to choose just one.

“Who?” He asked, his voice somewhat rougher than she’d expected.

“Dawn. Blond, bubbly, probably batted her eyes a total number of once before you agreed to meet her here with champagne.”

He flushed and sputtered a bit and she smiled, giving a little wave with her hand.  “She’s my sister, I of all people know how well that eyelash batting thing works for her.  She’ll be here, she probably just got waylaid by yet another admirer. I’ll get out of your way.”  She swung her legs down, helping the waterfall drape of material down to cover her as she stood.  “Well, I hope your night goes better than mine has.  Don’t keep her out too late.”

She started for the door at the back of the solarium, but paused when he cleared his throat.

“Um, you’re Marianne Summerfield.  This is for you.” He held a champagne flute out to her while his other hand simultaneously tried to hold the other flute and tug at the neckline of his collar. 

Her mood wilted even more. Summerfield had been her mother’s maiden name, and was the name Marianne used to publish her books under.  He wasn’t looking for Marianne St-Romes, but the author of four books which had shot Marianne to a bizarre sort of stardom in the literary world.  It made her terribly uncomfortable.  People expected someone eloquent and savvy and erudite.  What they got was short, brassy and lacking a filter between her brain and mouth. 

 “That’s very nice of you, but you must have missed the pool scene tonight.  You don’t want me. Wander back up to that party and ask anyone, they’ll set you straight on the eldest St-Romes sister.” God, she was so tired.  Her twenty eight birthday and she just wanted to hole up in her room, drink wine and read. She was officially pathetic.

 “Um.” He swallowed hard, his jaw working with the motion. “I saw?”

“And you still thought it was a good idea to bring me champagne?” She almost grinned.  Kink-shaming wasn’t her thing, but seriously, who thought it was a good idea to go after a woman who clearly had no problem serving up a dish of fuck-you?

He cleared his throat. Twice. “I—it’s your birthday.” He paused, clearing his through again. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She took the champagne, wishing deep down that she wasn’t quite so…her.  But her discomfort momentarily swelled into amusement when he swallowed his champagne in one easy gulp, as if he we drinking from a cup meant for fairies.

He frowned at his glass and tugged at his collar again.  Marianne sipped her champagne more slowly. It had been a long, long time since she’d been alone with a man in the solarium.  She knew, by nature of these meetings, flirting was the main manner of discourse.  And at one time, she’d been good at that.  Now, God, now she wasn’t sure she knew the first thing about engaging and entertaining the opposite sex.  Boring and/or terrifying them was her own brand of special charm that no one ever seemed to find it very charming.    

The silence stretched and his hand slipped from his collar to the back of his neck.  “What is it yer reading there?”

She winced, wishing he’d asked anything but that.  In her experience, men would rather catch her reading a trashy romance than a dry, scholarly tome.  It was silly, but for a moment she wanted to pretend that it wasn’t hers—that she’d merely found it lying on the bench and then find a way to channel the old Marianne—the flirting and the easiness that used to make her a favorite among young men.  She was twenty eight. And alone. And was it really so bad to want to be flirted with and touched and possibly, maybe even have a man’s hands on her body again after so long? 

But presenting herself to anyone other than who she was now was nothing more than a lie. And thanks to the ex-hole, Marianne had a weak stomach for lying.  If the blue eyed stranger didn’t want her as she was, then it was probably for the best.  She studied his large hands and fine boned fingers with a wistful sigh, fleetingly imagining how they’d feel rasping across her back, the glittering gems of her gown catching on every callus and bump of his palms.  She sternly filed the image away, stashing it in her very own fantasy-fodder folder.  “It’s a history of the Chumpuwah Valley.”

“Chu-chum—”

“Chum-pu-wah,” she repeated slowly, flipping it around until the cover showed. “It’s a valley in Montana that’s held sacred by the tribes that once lived there.  But, it’s more because there’ve been discoveries of Viking’s having lived there at one point.  The book is an exploration of how much interaction the Crow Nation would have or could have had with the Vikings and what if any culture may have passed on in their customs.”

 He drew back a step, his eyes glued to the book she cradled. Marianne pressed her lips together, her own awkwardness making her insides cringe from her navel up.  Suddenly, it was too hot in the solarium and the thought of champagne made her stomach sour.  “It was nice to meet you, but I’ve got to go.” Depositing the glass on a brick ledge, she said, “Thank you. And goodnight.”

Before she was more than two hurried steps away, the door squeaked open and her sister’s voice rang through the air.

“Marianne! There you are!” Dawn spotted Bog and she stopped running so fast her frothy blue dress swirled around her legs like an ocean wave.  “Oh. Oh! I’M INTERRUPTING I’M SO SORRY, I’LL GO, ILL GO, I’M TERRIBLY SORRY.”

                Marianne didn’t get one word out when the door squeaked again and a shorter man with dark hair and brown, freckled skin came skidding to a stop much like Dawn did.  But he wasn’t looking at Marianne or the other man—he was staring at Dawn.

 “Wow-Hi,” he breathed as if it were one word.

Dawn stared just a moment longer than was polite, a smile slowly pulling her lips back. “Hi. We haven’t met, have we? I’m Dawn St-Romes.”

 “Sunny.  Sunny Dusseau de LaCroix.”

 A memory pinched at the back of Marianne’s mind—she knew that name.  Unable to quite pinpoint the specifics on it, she instead turned to Dawn.  “You’re not interrupting anything.  What do you need?”

Sunny tilted his head, craning around Marianne to look at the tall man still standing in the sunken floor of the center of the solarium. “She’s not?”

 “I’m not?” Dawn asked, then glanced at Sunny as their questions fell right on top of each other. 

Marianne’s eyes narrowed at them both. What exactly was going on?

Dawn’s phone dinged and she lifted it to her face. “Wow, comments are already starting to roll in!”

“On what?” Marianne asked.

“I figured out what to get you for your birthday, I swear, you are so hard to buy for.  So I went the D-I-Y route.” Dawn flipped her phone around, holding it up and out to her sister.  “I caught the whole thing and already uploaded it to YouTube.”

 With numb, disbelieving fingers, Marianne took the phone, cradling it as an image of her slugging the ex-hole’s face and the three idiot twins trying to pull his unconscious body from the pool only to accidently drop him back in played out. “Dawn, I might cry.”

Marianne instantly replayed it.

 Her sister snuggled into the arm Marianne held outstretched and Dawn giggled when the sound of Marianne’s fist hitting Roland’s face filled the air around them.  “I’m so glad you finally did that.  He needed it.”

“I needed it.”

Dawn giggled again, her head resting against Marianne’s. “I love you, big sis. Happy birthday.”

“I love you too.” And she did.  With all her heart.

 A terse whispered conversation behind their backs had both women turning around at the video’s end.  The blue eyed stranger and Sunny jerked straight, both instantly quieting. 

“Okay. What’s going on?” She leveled a stare at Sunny. “We’ve met before, right?”

The shorter man grinned. “We have.  You interviewed my mother and I a year or so ago.”

“Of course, yes, Dusseau de LaCroix—the old inn by Lake Pontchartrain.” Memories filtered back in slowly of the first time she met him, interviewing his colorful and fascinating mother on the history the Dusseau De LaCroix’s and their role in the survival of Haitian customs that still lingered in the culture of the Creole.  “You’re a chef, right?”

He nodded. “Professional chef and amateur party crasher.”

“Sunny, no—“ The tall man hissed but Sunny wasn’t deterred.

“My friend Bog wanted to meet you. Plum Alacaster gave us your address, told us about your birthday party.”

Marianne gritted her teeth against the dirty word she wanted to growl.  She both loved Plum and hated her.  Loved her because she could bribe the bookstore owner into not so legally selling her an advanced copy of books like the History of the Chumpuwah Valley a month before it’s release date.  But she hated her because the woman was forever trying to set her up on blind dates. Marianne rubbed at her twitching eye. 

“Oh—See, Bog?” Sunny patted his friend’s back.  “I told you not to worry.  Look, she’s already reading one of your books.”

Marianne glanced down at the matte cover she still held protectively against her chest.  Then looked at the tall stranger again.  “You’re—“ He couldn’t be B. King.  The real B. King was old. And wore cardigans. And had tobacco stains on his fingers from the pipe he liked to have every afternoon around three o’clock. At least…that was what she’d always assumed. This man, this man was much more like the B. King she’d imagined for herself.

Her eyes clung to his tall form and a smoky heat tickled her belly. She swallowed hard. “You’re B. King?” Her voice sounded as breathless as she felt.

“Aye. Bog. It’s—I’m Boggart King.”

 “And…you snuck into my birthday party because you wanted to meet…me?”

 “I’d heard—from Plum—that you were researching the Valley and I uh—um—well, I wanted to discuss it. With you. If you wanted.” He flushed and Marianne suddenly felt too warm again, but this time, instead of fleeing the heat, she wanted to sink into it.  

The solarium door opened yet again, this time one of the young maids that attended the St-Romes Estate stepped inside. “Miss Marianne, your father’s sent the three of us girls on a hunt to find you. If we do find you, we are to ask you to come to him at once.  I realize you’re not here and I haven’t seen you, but perhaps you should stay elsewhere for the evening.  At least until he’s not in such a fit.”

Marianne grimly rubbed her twitching eye again. This was what she got for letting her father guilt trip her into living under his roof at her ripe old age.  It shouldn’t be her life-long problem that her father didn’t like when the house sounded empty.  As much as the thought of him being alone broke her heart—she knew that was exactly what he wanted her to feel.  Guilt. Plenty of parents lived in their houses alone while their grown up children did grown up children things on their own and it was time her father faced that. To the loyal maid she tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Francine.”

The young woman’s smile winked in the soft light.  “Happy birthday, miss.”  The door shut behind her and Dawn tapped a finger on her chin, staring at her sister.

“Do you think Sacha’s parents would let you stay on such short notice?”

“They’re in Europe.”

“What about the Dunlath’s?”

“Dawn, I’m not driving two hours to the shore tonight.”

“Excuse me.”

Both women looked at Sunny.

“It pains me that you’re being forced away from your very own birthday party, Miss St-Romes—”

“Marianne, please.” She definitely remembered him now, he had an easy-going Creole charm—a mixture of formal South and raw bayou--that a man was born into.  It couldn’t be taught.

“Marianne.” The freckles on his brown skin moved with his smile. “It only seems fair since I crashed your party, that you allow me to make it up to you in some small manner.  It would be my honor if you’d allow me to cook for y’all tonight.”

Dawn lit up at the offer, but looked to Marianne before saying anything.  Her blue eyes practically pleaded and whined.

“I’m but a very short walk from the Desmond Hotel,” Sunny continued. “I have every faith we’ll be able to secure a room for you there.”

Unable to resist her sister or the chef/sometimes party crasher, Marianne smiled.  “I’d love nothing more than an adventure for my birthday.” And, if she couldn’t somehow finagle Boggart King into joining their little party, she’d never forgive herself. 

But Dawn, bless her heart, unknowingly gave Marianne a second gift when she took Boggart’s arm and smiled up at him. “Mr. King, you’ll be joining us, yes?”

“I—I--”

“Excellent. I’m sure my sister will be thrilled to finally have someone around that can throw around words as big or bigger than she does.”

The tall man huffed a short laugh, staring down at Dawn’s blond head as she led him away.

Sunny held his own arm out and Marianne shifted her book to one side, slipping her arm into his, suddenly feeling very happy about celebrating her twenty eight birthday. 


	2. A Keen Mind

Sunny Dusseau de LaCroix lived in a small bungalow on Rooster Street.  Well known for its older homes and Spanish moss-curtained trees, his house had a fair amount of charm by its location alone. But when they walked inside the dark house and were greeted by the scent of spice and melted candle wax—things Bog was well used to by this point in his relationship with Sunny—the two women murmured excitedly.  Dawn giggled in her way—Bog was coming to understand that her main manner of communication was a language built almost entirely in the nuance of a laugh.  He wasn’t sure he was accurate in his translations, but having been stuck riding with her in her small, shiny and incredibly tiny town car back to Sunny’s home, Bog had gotten plenty of practice.  Whether he wanted it or not.  Now Dawn’s giggle was slightly breathless—Bog imagined it meant the girl was enjoying herself, perhaps excited by the night’s turn of events. 

Sunny flipped lights on, slowly filling the house with a warm glow.  Marianne, who also looked excited—was carefully examining the living room.  While fairly modern and painfully bachelor—what with the giant tv Sunny insisted he couldn’t live without—there were traces of his heritage peppered about if one bothered to look carefully enough.  And Marianne was—she moved as if in a museum.  She didn’t touch anything but her eyes poured over everything.  She paused by a small charm stuck against the window sill, her mouth widening in a smile. 

“Your home is just as wonderful as your mother’s, Sunny. I wonder if you’d let me ask you a few questions though—I know we touched a bit on your religious practices as Voodoists when we were recanting the history of the Dusseau de LeCroix’s, but I have so many more things I want to know.” She squatted down, peering at the books lined up behind a lead lined glass enclosed bookshelf.   

Bog found himself nodding—he’d always had an interest in the various aspects of Voodoo and its role in the modern culture of Louisiana.  He was curious what a mind like Marianne’s might make of things—and what sort of questions she’d ask.  You could tell a lot about a person by the questions they asked—and Bog had a feeling that despite being more lovely than he’d ever imagined, Marianne was as sharp and quick minded as he’d always hoped she’d be. 

Before Marianne or Sunny could say anything, Dawn took her sisters arm, lifting her back to her feet.  Their gowns twinkled in the lamplight. 

“Nu-uh, Marianne. You are not turning this into an interview.”

“Well—no, but if I could just—”

“No.”

“But Dawn—”

“Not having it.” She angled back to give Sunny a charming smile and Bog watched as his friend practically melted. “You wouldn’t have any wine, would you?  Marianne prefers red, but at this point, I think anything that’ll mellow the rabid author would be welcomed.”

Marianne looked at once offended and amused. “Fine. Questions are postponed until a later date. But—” She pointed her finger at Dawn. “I get ten minutes with the bookshelf while you fetch the wine.” Her head tilted to take Sunny in. “So long as you’re okay with that?”

“I think my books long for your attention, Saints know I have done little to give them purpose. They were my mothers and I imagine they miss her. I don’t know if they’d ever forgive me if I said no to you and those aren’t the kind of books I’d want as enemies.  I’ll fetch the wine and start doing what I do best—cooking.”

“And I’ll come with you.” Dawn reached for Sunny’s arm and Bog would’ve sworn his friend swayed a little with pleasure. 

Bog saw the appeal in a woman like Dawn—slim and willowy, she had the practiced grace of a true lady.  Young though she was, in a few more years, she’d be quite regal and quite suited to reigning over the large St-Romes estate. 

But her elder sister had no such quiet beauty.  Where Dawn glowed brightly, Marianne flamed darkly.  There was no coy-eyed girl inside of her, no youthful naiveté.  She was terribly and wonderfully woman, from the sharp intelligence gleaming in her eyes to the span of her hips in that night-sky dress. 

With Dawn and Sunny gone and her concentration locked on the bookshelf once again, Marianne knelt in front of it. With one hand, she tugged her heels off, tossing them aside while the other hand still clutched _his_ book to her middle.  The sight of it in her arms gave him a jolt just as it had the first time she’d turned it around to show him the cover. 

His own work—his own thoughts and months of research and Marianne held them as if they were dear to her.  It should’ve pleased him that a mind he found so very fascinating seemed to at least reciprocate the sentiment, but it only made a nervous sweat break out down his back. 

Needing relief, Bog shed the formal jacket and undid the buttons at the collar of the stiff white shirt he wore.  His cuffs received similar treatment before he pushed them up his arms. 

Marianne muttered something, pulling a book off the shelf.  Then another—this one she flipped open while juggling his book and the first book she’d taken in the crook of her arm.

“I suppose I’ll have to research the religion as it stands in the original nations it descends from.” Her mouth puckered a bit with a frown of concentration.  She tucked that book in with the others and reached for yet another. “Was there a reverse flow? Did the changes in the belief system that occurred on American soil ever reverberate back into the mother lands?”

He smiled a bit, for the first time perhaps in his life, he wasn’t the scholar bitten by a bug of curiosity and driven to block everything out but what mattered—the answers to their questions.  Marianne was clearly not in that room anymore. She was lost in books.  In thought. It was interesting for him to be on this side of things for once.

Knowing how he often forgot to make notes of his questions—knowing that those could later lead him on the right path of discovery, Bog lifted the pad of paper and pen Sunny kept tucked in a small desk in the corner.  He joined Marianne on the floor, kneeling as she did, jotting down her questions—adding even a few of his own to tag at the end of hers. 

When she handed him a book, he set it aside.  And did the same with the next. He finally took the five she clutched precariously in her one arm and set them in a stack next to her, freeing both her hands to reach for more. 

The smell of books, old incense and the faint aroma of whatever Sunny had begun to cook filled the air.  Marianne’s stomach growled, but she paid it no mind and Bog didn’t either. 

Until it did it a second time.  She grimaced against it, but drew the book currently receiving her attention up closer to her face as if it could block out the natural urges of her own body.

Before he could stop it, Bog found himself laughing.  In this—he and Marianne were well matched.  His mother never let him forget that the reason he was so skinny was because he’d rather starve than interrupt his work.  He pulled the book from her hand and she finally lifted her head, her eyes wide and dilated, the inky black of her pupils framed by the gilt-gold of her irises. 

He swallowed hard, suddenly realizing how close he’d sat to her, and just how very alluring she was surrounded by books and the sparkling hem of her dress with her pale bare feet peeking out from it.  Very slowly she seemed to come back to herself, color pushed up the slender column of her neck.

She glanced down at the piles of books and then back at the near empty shelf with something like embarrassed horror.  “Oh.” Her nervous laugh confused Bog until she stammered an apology. “I’m so sorry. Rabid author strikes again.”

Bog frowned and against his better judgement—that being the quiet scholar who did very little to ever engage in discourse with the opposite sex, he said, “That’s an amusing bit of teasing from your sister, but it doesn’t quite do you justice, you know.”

She winced and quickly but with great care began sliding the books back into their spots on the shelf. Bog let her, quietly taking her stiffness and the twin spots of colors in her cheeks.

It stumped him how terribly ashamed she seemed of her inquisitive nature. He knew without a doubt that her sister hadn’t put any real feeling behind the words, Dawn very clearly loved Marianne—he imagined Dawn’s teasing was just as his own mother’s badgering was—to make sure the ones they loved maintained some sort of touch with reality and life.  Dawn didn’t want Marianne to change, she just wanted to make sure her sister had balance in her life. 

But it was evident that someone had convinced Marianne that her mind was somehow wrong—that she was somehow less because of her nature.

His hands curled into fists and Bog sat helplessly. As attached as he’d always felt to the mind behind the books, she wasn’t his to defend. But he knew without a doubt that there was nothing wrong with her except perhaps she had what everyone wanted and envied—beauty and brains. And unfortunately, there were those in the world who preyed on that combination and thrived by tearing those pillars down piece by piece. 

He fervently wished whoever had tried to tear Marianne down would be hounded by pigeons with dysentery for the rest of their life.  Making a mental note to ask Mamma Dusseau De LaCroix for a special favor in that area of her expertise, he slipped a book onto the shelf for her, and then gruffly said, “There is no folly in a keen mind, Marianne. Just as you feed your body when you’re hungry, you must feed your mind when it requires it. Sometimes, you are hungrier than others.  And nothing matters until you’ve satiated that.  There’s no shame in it.  Where would our world be without hungry minds such as yours?”

Her face tilted to his and the somber quiet of those painfully gold eyes stopped his heart.  But Jaysus this woman was so much more than his staid academic mind could ever have dreamed of. 

It was at that moment it hit him that he was finally face to face with Marianne Summerfield/St-Rome. Bog’s mouth went dry and he whispered, “You’re incredible.”

One edge of her mouth turned up, and he stumbled over his words, feeling heat pour over his face. “Your writing—I mean. I envy what you do with words. Where I put facts on paper, you weave such complex and lovely tales, translating historians like myself to people who never in a million years would pick up one of our books.  You breathe a second life into our work by giving us to the masses. And that’s a wondrous thing.”  A nervous, hollow feeling spread from Bog’s chest but he held her stare.  “Whoever told you otherwise was wrong.”

Marianne didn’t say anything right away, and the half smile disappeared. “I know he was wrong. I mean, intellectually I know.  But it’s hard to get that voice out.  And it’s my own damn fault.” She made a disgusted sound. “I listened to him when he said a man couldn’t love let alone marry someone like me. I stopped writing my second book, I—I dumbed down, you know? Acted like he wanted me to—helpless and dependent. I changed _everything_ only to find out that it wasn’t enough.  He’d been cheating on me the whole time.  Two years.  Two years and I let him turn me into a creature so stupid I couldn’t see the truth right in front of my face.”

Again, Bog had to remind himself that Marianne wasn’t his to defend, but Jaysus and God damn it.  A rare fit of temper snagged in his throat, anyone who didn’t look at her and see bloody perfection was a walking piece of tripe. He’d have said as much, but he didn’t imagine she’d appreciate a stranger feeling so presumptuously protective of her.  He couldn’t help it though, he’d have given anything to be in her ex’s shoes and to have a woman like her. A companion like that who’d understand his own mind and his own drive for knowledge? A partner who had her own goals and who’d challenge him to think harder, who’d give him endless, interesting conversation and debate? Couple that with the absolute heart-stopping beauty and Bog didn’t think there was a woman anywhere that would compare to her.

She traced the knuckles of one hand with a finger.  “I should’ve hit him harder.”  

“Him?” He asked. “You mean the blond from tonight?”

She nodded, fiddling with the black and gold tassel dangling from the bookshelf’s handle, a small medallion of St. Peter woven into the braiding winked back at them.

He lifted a book to the shelf, starkly reminded that he wasn’t anything like the handsome, young man who very clearly had belonged in Marianne’s social class. Bog wasn’t really in her league in any way, except perhaps intellectually. And he couldn’t imagine that would be enough for her—hell, he admittedly knew it wasn’t enough. She needed someone who could meet her on every level.

 And for a man who operated on facts, he’d never encountered one that hurt quite as badly as the truth that while Marianne Summerfield was his match, Marianne St-Rome was seriously out of his reach. 


	3. Buttons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is taking so long to update--it's a finished piece--except for a short epilogue I'm going to add and my plan was to update chapters every few days but we had some nasty storms roll through mid week taking our power with it. But, here you go! And thanks so much to everyone who's reading. I appreciate it!

He’d gone quiet, picking up the mess she’d made and stacking the books back on the shelf.  His long fingers aligned the spines with a mathematic precision, pulling her gaze to his wrists where tendons moved just under his skin, then further up his long forearms.  The fine hair there wasn’t as dark as she’d imagined it would be, certainly not as dark as the hair he wore casually slicked back from his face.  She studied the unbuttoned V of his collar. Would his chest hair would be darker or lighter? One or two more buttons and she’d find out.

She flushed with the temptation, wondering what the quiet scholar would do if she followed through and slowly revealed more of his chest to her gaze and touch. Handing him the last of the books, she studied his face. For years she’d daydreamed about him, too afraid to do anything more out of fear that he’d let her down and disappoint her like every other man.  But he’d come to her. And he wasn’t intimidated by either her success or her intelligence, neither was he put off by the quirks that often made her feel like an outsider. For the first time, Marianne was face to face with a man she didn’t have to be anyone but herself with.  

The reality of Boggart King was better than anything she could ever have imagined. It was hard to not to slide from hero-worship to falling a teeny, tiny bit in love with him. 

  If he ever looked at her with hunger in those blue eyes, Marianne was sure she’d simply go up in flames.  But it was clear that he only saw her as a professional peer—which was heady in its own right, but it felt like being handed only a small slice of a very good pie.

 And Marianne was hungry enough that she wasn’t sure she could settle for that. 

Distracted by her own thoughts, she didn’t realize he’d picked up his own book, studying it with a slight pinch between his brows.

“How did ye get this anyway?” He idly thumbed it open. “It’s not to be released until next month.”

 “Promise you won’t be mad?”

Bog’s blue eyes lifted, humor ever so slightly crinkling the edges of them. “Aye. I wouldnae want ye to hit me.”

 Marianne wasn’t sure which made her more lightheaded, the teasing or the accent, but both pulled an answering grin from her.  “I may have broken the law and bribed Plum with an exponentially larger sum of money than I had to with your last book.”

His mouth opened then shut and his bemused look fell on the book. “For this? And what do ye mean my last book?”

“And the one before that,” she admitted, almost laughing when just stared at her. “Don’t act so surprised.  The first book of yours I read was Constance Kopp, The First Female Sherriff.  Through you—I fell in love with her.” Marianne touched her knuckles again. “You made me want to be tough like her.”

"Oh, that you are.  I think Constance and ye’d have gotten along quite well.”

She did laugh now, the sound coming so easily Marianne forgot how hard it used to be. “I like how you talk about her as if she were an old friend.”

 “Well, you spend so much time researching and reading about someone and they do become a friend.”

“Do you suppose,” she paused, working up a little courage in honor of good old Constance. “That maybe that’s why I like you so well? Because I’ve spent so much time reading everything you’ve ever written?”

 Something flashed across his face, too quick for Marianne to decipher. He handed her the heels she’d discarded and seemed to hesitate before softly replying, “It would make sense, after all that’s what brought me to yer doorstep.”

And wasn’t that just sort of wonderful, she thought with a slow smile.  

Bog got to his feet and Marianne took the large, warm hand he held down to her, letting him bring her upright. She tried to appear casual about not letting go of his hand, but instead holding it. He stared at them though, his mouth set as if he wasn’t sure what to say or do.  Having foregone her shoes and instead tucked them under an arm, Marianne was sharply reminded of how very tall he was. Her eyes were level with those buttons at the base of his throat, and this close she could see that one wasn’t completely fastened, but only sitting halfway through the hole. One little tug on his shirt and it’d pull free.  She pretended to pick a piece of lint from his collar then smoothed it down, tugging just enough that the button slid free.  And still there wasn’t any sign of chest hair.  Marianne glared at the next button in line, silently commanding it to work itself free like its brethren had. Not knowing was going to drive her a little bit nuts.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat, the deep sound drawing her attention up to his mouth. 

 Marianne slowly realized he was frozen—stuck in a spot of confusion and hesitation—unsure of what either of them were supposed to do.  She felt the same.  She knew what she wanted—but wasn’t quite sure how to communicate that to him.

 Giving them both a break, she let go and stepped back. “We should go see about that wine.”

He nodded, straightening. “Good—good idea.”

 His stammered response settled her a bit more. She’d become so used to Roland—and all the other young men that seemed to flock to her father—that she’d forgotten men who were spoilt and ruined by their privileged upbringing weren’t the norm. Those type of men were easy to handle—what they wanted and expected from her was painfully obvious.  They were as shallow as a child’s wading pool.  But here she stood, looking into depthless blue eyes. 

“Wait, I almost forgot.” Tearing his gaze away from hers, he reached for a notepad and ripped out a piece of paper, handing it to her. 

 She read the slanted penmanship, realization slowly dawning on her. “You…you wrote down my questions?”

 “Aye. So ye wouldnae forget them.” Color stained his cheekbones and he rattled his fingers together in a nervous gestures. Marianne couldn’t help but smile.

Tucking the page into her book, she slipped her arm through his.  “I am really glad you crashed my party, Bog.”    

 

 

Marianne eased her third glass of wine to her mouth, carefully taking a sip around the laugh Sunny’s story pulled from her. A hot breeze worked its way through the screened-in porch off the back of his house.  It wasn’t large—big enough to hold a long table on one end and two hammocks surrounded by houseplants on the other end.  While it was dark down by the hammocks, the other end was lit with strings of bare bulbs that highlighted the covered with food and crowded with people.

Apparently, Sunny entertaining anyone meant he was entertaining his neighborhood. He said he never knew how many to expect, but his door was always open and people always brought things to share. And Marianne had thought that lovely, but as the night wore on, she realized it was more than just friends visiting. Sunny’s home was a community center of sorts, a place where people came not only celebrate the community, but to discuss issues. And Dawn being Dawn, fell right into the middle of things, both she and Sunny at the head of the table. Although they were from drastically different worlds of one city, it was clear they shared similar views on so much. And young as Dawn was, she was the daughter of a state senator, not much passed through the St-Rome household that she didn’t hear or ask about. 

Poor Sunny.  Marianne wasn’t sure he’d taken his eyes off her all night, it was clear Dawn surprised him more and more as the evening wore on.  As she should. Beautiful, gracious and smart—Dawn was really coming into her own this past year.  Their mother would be so proud. 

Movement at her other side pulled her attention away from her sister’s animated discussion of the city’s recent push to increase the tourist industry in the downtown by proposing tax cuts for businesses catered towards it.  Bog held her pen between his long narrow fingers and jotted something down on the paper set between them.  She waited till he dropped the pen and turned back to his conversation with a retired fisherman before reading his question. 

Earlier when everyone crammed into the table, Marianne shoved as close to both Dawn and Bog as she could get without sitting in either’s lap, she and Bog had been discussing an interest in the history of San Francisco. When the gathering became loud and animated, they’d been distracted from the topic and each other.  Marianne had thought of a question she wanted answered to better understand the development of the different economic classes that shaped the face of San Francisco and so she’d jotted it down on the paper he’d given her earlier.  Her attention then moved back up the table, to where a woman was telling Dawn about some tension in the local high school’s teacher union.  By the time another random question popped in Marianne’s head and she’d gone to write it down—another question had already joined her previous one. This one was in Bog’s rather scratchy penmanship.  She glanced up at him but he was listening to the other end of the table’s laughing discourse, so Marianne had only put her question down next to his.

In that manner, they’d held an entire conversation based off of unanswered questions about a city neither had ever traveled to without speaking a single word.

And somewhere between glass two and glass three of wine, Bog had begun to shift next to her as if uncomfortable—the poor man, it couldn’t be pleasant having those long legs and arms clammed up tight like that.  She’d instinctively leaned forward, giving him space for his shoulders and bit by bit, his arm had eventually migrated behind her.  Really, neither of them noticed until Marianne forgot herself and leaned back. Bog’s arm flexed automatically, curving a hand around her hip even as he kept talking, his face turned away from her. With one side of her body pressed against him, she _felt_ that deep timbre to her core.  And when he laughed, his fingers tightened, and his thumb absently petted her where it lay just under her ribcage.  

Marianne’s pulse slipped between her legs. She was intimately aware of how big his hands were, how long his fingers and just how very arousing it was to have him palm her hip. But if he kept stroking her with his thumb, she wasn’t going to be able to keep herself from dragging him to the nearest dark corner—good Lord. Marianne crossed her arm over her body, covering his hand with her own.  And Bog casually laced their fingers together, keeping both their hands pinned on her hip as if they’d done this a million times before. 

Her heart hammered so loud, she was shocked it didn’t pull his attention away from his conversation.  Marianne was sure his scholarly brain had no clue what his long, lean body was subconsciously doing to her. It dazzled her a little that this was what waited for her on the other side of all his intellectual hesitation: real honest-to-God sexual affection.   

It felt so good and so right to be wrapped up against him in the middle of a loud, buoyant dinner party where people were talking over each other, shouting at times to be heard. She wanted this, had wanted it from the moment he’d walked in the solarium and she’d been so painfully sure he wasn’t for her.

Content, if not a bit more aroused than comfortable, Marianne tried to calmly keep engaged in conversation. And it worked enough, but her mind never completely blocked out the feel of him holding her.  Nor did it ignore the moment he must have realized what he’d done. 

His hand stiffened under hers, and then his entire body stiffened. Nervous and terribly afraid he was going to take his arm away, Marianne tried to cling to the conversation around them. Their fingers were still laced, and she told herself she’d let him go the moment he started to pull away. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was hesitating again, and of course his mind would find a million reasons as to why this was wrong.  So could hers if she so let it. But there were several very good reasons as to why this was right and felt so very natural to them both. Carefully, Marianne stroked her thumb against his, offering him what little reassurance she could that if he was okay with this—then she was too.  Her breath was erratic at best and she couldn’t even pretend she was listening to anything going on around her anymore.  All of her concentration lay on the connection of their hands over her hip. 

Slowly, he relaxed.  And slowly, Marianne relaxed right back.  But a new awareness buzzed between them, as if he was just as attuned to the little movements of her body against his as she was to his against hers. Neither of them really joined in anymore conversation, they only silently nursed their wines and responded half-heartedly to those around them.

The dinner party eventually began to wind down as Sunny’s guests said goodnight and began their walks home.  And the emptier the table became, the more Marianne knew her quiet connection to Bog was coming to an end.  From here, everything would change—they could only move forwards or fall backwards and she was pretty sure she knew which Bog would prefer.  His sense of caution would keep him from doing anything too impetuous.  And that was fine.

But what she wouldn’t do for him to give into the physical connection between them.  She liked him—well and truly liked him. She had from the first chapter of his first book and nothing had changed for her except now—now she knew that her like extended beyond his brain to the man attached.  And if Marianne couldn’t be rash and passionate with the most sensible man she’d ever met, then who could she be rash with?

Dawn and Sunny left with the elderly Mrs. Yeong, both carrying Tupperware full of leftovers to her house three doors down.

And then Marianne and Bog were alone. A bottle of wine sat on the table between them, the bare bulbs glowed sweetly over their heads and the hot Louisiana night was nothing compared to the scorching heat that flooded her senses when she turned to him and realized one more lone button had worked itself free. 


	4. Tonight

It had been so surreal when the room was bursting with the noise of people and he held her.  He wasn’t sure how she’d gotten under his arm, but Marianne had gently made it clear that his touch was welcomed. After that, Bog could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart. And as if she knew, the moment his pulse slowed a little, she’d stroke her thumb along his skin again and his blood would race again. He’d sat there, unable to so much as carry on a conversation, his mind fogged with the pleasure of the curve and hollow of her hip and the stupid joy he got every time he remembered his fingers were laced with hers. Whether she felt the same or not, for him there was a certain intimacy to that—something more than just sexual.

He was probably making emotional mountains out of molehills, but he’d had so many feelings tied to her before even meeting her. That was his problem, not hers, but it was hard not to let this moment just take him over—he so very badly wanted to fit his mouth to hers.

Instead, he cleared his throat and forced himself to look at her for the first time since touching her.  But Marianne was focused on something below his neck.  She brought her hand up, tugging on his collar again, smoothing it down.  Even just that casual touch made him feel shaky. 

She frowned, her fingers ghosting over one of his shirt buttons, then she did the inconceivable and slipped it free.  Bog’s heart lurched under his skin, hitting his chest wall so hard it hurt.  His fingers had gone numb from sheer shock, and he didn’t try to stop her when she pulled her hand free of his.  She peeled open the collar of his shirt, revealing a good portion of his chest.  Color ghosted across her face and she moved on the bench, turning into him, her hips and back sliding under his hand.  Still fiercely focused on his chest, whatever she saw there made her mouth soften.  Bog watched in stunned, agonized silence as Marianne slowly ran the fingers of one hand over the thin cover of chest hair she’d revealed. 

Then she bent forward and left a hot, open mouthed kiss on the skin just above it. His hand fisted roughly in her dress, and she made a little pleasured sound then closed her eyes and took another taste of him. This time there was a hint of teeth and Bog all but whimpered.

He was dimly aware of her moving onto her knees. She slid her hands up his shoulders, holding him still as her mouth scraped and bit its way up his chest, pausing to suckle on the ridge of his collar bone. Bog’s breath burned in his throat and he turned his face into her hair, but Marianne moved with him, taking the skin of his neck between her teeth in sweet little bites before sucking and kissing it. 

When she pulled back, he automatically followed her, just barely keeping himself from just pulling her into his lap.  His throat burned from her teeth, he was going to have marks. And that made the edge of pain feel irrationally more erotic—she’d branded him. 

“Bog, where are you staying tonight?”

He blinked his eyes open, trying to focus on the husky question.  Marianne’s lips were swollen, the strange gold of her eyes shimmering in the light.  He was never going to get over her or the fact that this had actually happened to him.  What a perfect little departure from reality—he’d never felt so good before.

His voice sounded fried when he replied. “I rent the apartment above Sunny’s garage. But I’ll walk you both to the Desmond to make sure you get there safely. I doubt any of us are in any shape to be drive.” And before he lost his nerve he quickly said, “Thank you.  For that. For what you did to me.”

Marianne’s mouth quirked slightly and she took one of his hands in both of hers. “Bog, I’m not done with you quite yet.  If you’d let me, I’d like to stay with you tonight.”

“Let you…” he echoed dazedly. He’d never had a one night stand before—he stared blankly at her mouth.

“I want to have sex with you.”

The sharp spike of thrilled longing made it hard to breath.  But somewhere, a small part of him balked.  He wasn’t going to be able to just have sex with her, his heart was too far involved already.  There would be pain on the heels of this encounter.  She’d go back to her life and Bog wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to read another of her books again. But he’d never had anything half so wonderful as her happen to him before.  He couldn’t say no, not to her.  Not to his Marianne. 

So he nodded and she nodded back.

“I have to make sure Dawn’s okay for the night, then I’ll go with you.”

He nodded again.

Marianne bit at her bottom lip and tugged on his shirt, buttoning it up to his sternum. “You look deliciously rumpled.”

She looked perfect.  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do anything more than stare at her in stunned silence once she took that dress off. 

His chest locked tight.  She was going to take her dress off.  That was really going to happen with him.  Anticipation trembled through him.

Sunny’s easy laugh drew Marianne away..  His friend held open the door, letting Dawn pass in front of him.  She went straight for a hammock, sliding into it as if she’d done it a million times before. 

Marianne stood, walking to that end of the room.  Bog followed, unable to feel his legs anymore. 

“Well,” Dawn said, smiling at her sister. “I’d say your birthday was a smashing success.”

“Agreed.” 

Dawn kicked her heels off, stretching her toes out.  Sunny reappeared from the house and he handed her a fringed blanket. 

“We should probably get you to the hotel,” Marianne said. “It’s late.”

Dawn only laughed. “Marianne, unless you’re packing plastic somewhere in that dress, neither one of us thought to bring our purses.” But she smiled.  “Sunny said I could sleep in a hammock tonight. I’ve never done it before.”

“Too hot to sleep indoors anyway.” Sunny moved into the other hammock, then reached over and rocked Dawn’s, setting her into a gentle swaying motion.  “Marianne, you’re welcome to my spare bedroom.  It’s a futon, but I’ll make it up to you with breakfast in the morning.”

Bog flushed when she took his hand in hers, drawing him a little closer.  

“No, I’m good,” she said.  “Dawn, you good?”

The blond briefly looked at their joined hands. “Are you going far?”

                Bog tried not to let the implications that he and Marianne would be having sex embarrass him. He knew neither sister would leave the other if one were uncomfortable in their present situation, and they both needed to know where the other one would be. He whole heartedly approved of them ensuring the other’s safety.  And he also knew there was no shame in seeking out sex with a consenting partner, he was just an old fashioned stick stuck in modern times. Thank God Marianne seemed more practiced as this, he’d have needed a century to work up the courage to kiss her.  

She tilted her head towards the door. “Above the garage.”

“I’m good then.  Would you switch the lights off on your way out?”

“You got it.  Goodnight.  Thank you again, Sunny.”

“My pleasure.”

Marianne pulled the switch down and the screen door yawned as they moved out into Sunny’s yard.  A small concrete path moved around the garage and Bog led her towards it. The flood lights on the neighbor’s house across the alley gave him just enough light to unlock the back door. He pushed it open and she slipped through, her hand trailing across his stomach as she went. 

He nearly forgot to shut the door, let alone lock it again. And she was already upstairs by the time he’d fumbled with both tasks.  He found her in the middle of the studio space.  The only light was the little lamp on his desk and a small one above the stove.  They didn’t erase the shadows of the room, they just turned them grey instead of black.  And her dress glimmered even still. 

She took his hand and backed him up to the edge of his bed until he sat.  Pulling up her dress just enough, she immediately straddled his lap, slowly rubbing herself down against him. He clutched at her hips, certain that at any moment he was going to wake up. 

Her fingers trailed over the shell of his ears before slipping into his hair and she brought his mouth to hers.  Bog closed his eyes, sinking into the kiss. It wasn’t hard or fast like those she’d left on his neck, no this was slow and hot like the night.  Pleasure fused his bones together. He allowed her tongue to slip past his lips and he tasted her for the first time.  An aching noise caught in his chest and Marianne pressed her hand over it, the other tightening in his hair.  He’d never been kissed so deeply before.

And when she pulled back and licked at his lips, silently inviting him in he didn’t know that he could ever convey to her what she made him feel.  He didn’t know if he could kiss her in a manner that would give her even half the pleasure she gave him.  But he followed after her tongue, making himself move into her slowly, bit by bit, pushing his tongue through her lips over and over, deeper and deeper.  Marianne whimpered, her hips grinding and Bog helplessly bit at her top lip before plunging back into her mouth. 

She was perfect.  So perfect. He’d wanted this for so long and she was so much more than he’d ever dreamed. His heart swelled, the pressure almost unbearable in his chest.  He was going to be in love with this woman for the rest of his life. 

And he was going to watch her walk away in the morning.  Pain cut through the haze, the hurt so real and raw that Bog had to pull back from her mouth.  

He’d loved and lost before—it had cut at him for years.  But that relationship was nothing compared to the glory of the woman in his arms right now.  And he knew that if he slept with her, losing Marianne was going to hollow a part of him he’d never get back.

 She sat still in his lap, quietly watching him as if she knew he was struggling with himself.  He touched her cheek apologetically, hating that he couldn’t close enough of himself off to spend one night loving her body. 

  “I can’t do this.”

 “Okay,” she whispered, smoothing his hair down with her hand. “That’s okay. I’m moving fast, I’m so sorry, Bog.” Her eyes dripped with embarrassment.   

 “Don’t apologize. You’re perfect—this is perfect.”

“I jumped you.”

The shame that came over her expression made his stomach ache. Bog gently caught her cheek again, fighting to keep himself from kissing her.  “I don’t want you to think this has anything to do with you.  It’s me.  I don’t have one night stand feelings for you.” He pulled a deep breath, staring at the gentle slope of her shoulders.  “I’ve—I’ve always felt something when I read your books and I thought, I thought meeting you—we’d connect and you’re more than anything I could have ever imagined.  I’m so lost in you, Marianne.” His throat closed and he nervously moved his hand from her cheek to her jaw.  “Sex with you would be big for me. Huge. It would be everything for me. I don’t want to get hurt.” His nosed touched hers because he couldn’t stop himself. “Even now I already miss you.  I’m so sorry.”

Marianne’s hands caught at the back of his head, holding him to her tightly.  And he closed his eyes, giving himself permission to enjoy this just a moment longer before he cut himself off from the sweetest pleasure he’d ever known. 


	5. Too Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what I had originally envisioned for the story, but after having forgotten about it, only to re-read it with fresh eyes, I think it calls for an epilogue. So, there's one more chapter to come. THANK YOU ALL for reading and letting me throw smut at your heads.

Turning her face into his neck, Marianne smiled despite the tender ache welling under her breast. Her sensitive scholar had worked himself up and she was just going to have to convince him that sex or no sex, he was where she wanted to be.  

She leaned back, but didn’t climb off his lap.  He wouldn’t quite meet her gaze, seeming to prefer staring at his hands where they rested on her hips.  So she took his face in her hands and lifted until he had no choice but to look her in the eyes.  And when he did, Marianne dropped a soft kiss against the sad shape of his mouth.

“I used to be so sure that you had to be in your sixties at least.”

Confusion bent his brows together so she pressed her lips there too. 

“I thought you probably napped every afternoon until three and wore an ugly cardigan the same shade of brown as the six others neatly folded in your dresser drawer.”

 “Cardigans?” There was a touch of humor in the question, his head drew back so he could fully look at her. The playfulness didn’t extend any further than the edge of his lips. The blue of his gaze and the angle of his jaw were still set with defeated misery. 

 “Mmm-hmmm. So imagine my surprise when you walked into my solarium tonight, bringing me champagne of all things.”

One of his shoulders lifted. “I was worried about you.”

And just like that, she wanted to peel his shirt off and bite his skin again. Flooded with a flustering mix of affection and arousal, Marianne settled on running her hands over his broad shoulders, gently pushing out the tension coiled there.  “Bog. You’re not the only one who’s felt something and wondered.  I wanted you to be this—I wanted it so very badly.  And I was so afraid that like every other man I’ve ever known, you’d disappoint me.  But you’re so much better than I imagined.”

 He swallowed, looking for all the world as though she was going to start laughing and take it all back. Marianne shook her head and tutted softly. “You’re making it very hard to not just take your shirt off and pick up where I left off downstairs.”

He startled, surprise and an underlying heat overruled everything else this time when he met her eyes.

“All these years,” she said, “we’ve been separated by the distance of a city and thousands of words on paper. I couldn’t stand it if we went back to that now.  Not when we both know we’ll just be stupidly pining after each other.”

A huff of laughter slipped from him.  She cupped his cheek in her hand, aching as he rubbed into her touch. One of his large hands covered hers, holding it steady as he pressed a kiss into her palm. The feel of his rough cheek made her hips arch in need.

His other hand slid down over the curve of her ass, pulling her back up his lap until she intimately bracketed the shape of his erection again. She rocked against him helplessly as he shuddered and kissed her palm once more. 

“I’ve already been stupidly pining after ye for years,” he whispered. “I like this better.”

Marianne nodded, fastening her mouth to his. He met her kiss for kiss, his hands alternately clutching at her dress and stroking long, needy, scraping fingers down her rib cages and over her thighs.  She bit his chin and licked him and bit him again, breathless as she said, “I need you to take my dress off now.”

He groaned, his hips moving under her in a new urgency, but he leaned back.  “Zipper?”

“The side.” She lifted her arm up, panting and shifting against him, driving them both a little wilder. 

He found the metal pull and tugged it down, drawing the dress off her chest as he went.  She slipped her arms out of the simple shoulder straps and reached for him again, but he stopped her, his wide eyed gaze stuck on her bare chest.  And Marianne was so very, very glad she couldn’t wear a bra with this gown.

His mouth pinched as he sucked a deep breath in through his nose before slowly releasing it.  “Ye need to lay down now, Marianne.”

She didn’t get a chance to move, Bog lifted her up and stood, carrying her from the foot of his bed to the simple wood headboard.  Her body moved restlessly the moment he laid her down, the scent of him on his pillows and sheets overwhelmed her, deepening the ache between her legs.  When he started to crawl over her, his eyes hot and needy, she tugged on his collar.

“Take off your shirt.”

“No,” he shook his head, settling at her side. “I can’t. Please.” He kissed her skin. “I need this, I can’t stop.”

She moaned arching her back, unable to deny him anything. His mouth covered one of her breast, pulling a throbbing coil of tension through her middle. Her body both fought it and craved it, leaving her twisting against his bed.  His other hand petted her—covering her arm, her neck, her waist and belly, smoothing itself along her skin as if she weren’t bucking under his mouth and twisting his hair in her fingers.  He eased up, pressing kisses across to her other breast before biting the soft underside and slipping his mouth over it when she cried out. 

His hand tugged at her dress, moving it as far down her body as he could without letting go of her nipple.  Marianne bent her knees, freeing her legs and he tossed it aside, then started a slow journey up the outside of her leg with his palm.  He jerked against her when he crossed the top of her hose at her thigh and touched the strap of her garter.

Bog pulled away as if he’d been bit, hand hovering in the air over her as he stared down.  She almost covered herself, wondering at his sudden hesitation, but his breath wheezed out from his chest and he shivered. 

The back of his fingers reverently trailed down the skin of her exposed thigh between the black lace of the garter belt and the top of her hose.

“Yer almost too beautiful to touch.” His voice was as gritty as gravel. 

And Marianne smiled, slipping her hand down her front, easing it under the top of her panties. “Then you watch and I’ll touch.”

He gritted out a pained, stuttered “fuck” and wrapped her wrist with one hand, pulling her searching fingers away from where she so desperately needed them. “I said almost, didn’t I?”

Pinning that hand to the bed, Bog leaned down and licked the crescent of skin that ran from the top of her underwear to the bottom of the hip-spanning garter belt.  She bit off her own harsh “fuck” and the leg he hadn’t pinned with his body bent, her calf clutching helplessly at him. 

He sat up, flicking open the small metal tabs that held up her stockings.  She helped him ease her underwear off, her legs boldly open to his gaze. Bog’s face was a mask of need, the force of it so great that he looked angry, the snarl on his mouth glimmered in the low light.  But he gently closed each tab back over her stockings and stared at her, using one finger to trace the line of each little suspender.  She absently tucked away the knowledge that he was very much a lingerie man and the prospect of torturing him further in the future left her giddy.

He nudged her legs open a little wider with a knuckle and when he moved himself between them, shouldering her knees, Marianne cried out, arching up, the pleasure already almost too much to bear and he hadn’t even touched her yet. 

His heavy palm fell over her stomach, weighting her down as his mouth found her.  She bit her lip against the next wail working up her throat and she stared down at him, grinding against him with everything she could and he watched her with such shy adoration that she whispered his name, her fingers petting and clutching his hair.  When he closed his eyes and licked deeper, pushing his mouth against her body, suddenly sucking and drawing on her with a fierce growl, Marianne arched, her orgasm tearing her into small, quivering pieces. 

 Bit by bit he eased up, then eased off her, settling his body down on the bed.  Marianne blindly turned into him, sighing when he clutched her against him, their legs intertwined.   

“Give me two minutes,” she murmured, plucking at his shirt. “And I’ll show you how good this garter looks while I ride you.”

Bog cursed again, the sound so unabashedly rough and hot that she smiled in wicked delight.

 “Ye can’t say things like that, Marianne.”

“Why ever not?” 

“Because I am an idiot and I don’t have any condoms.”

She opened her eyes and lifted her head. His skin was hot, his hair clung to his forehead in sweaty strands and his gaze glittered as she met it, but he cupped her cheek and smiled as if it could mask the tortured hunger that pulled his skin gaunt.

“Raincheck,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. 

Marianne realized he thought they’d met the full extent of the night’s activities and she quickly hid her smile in his chest.  Oh, how she was going to delight in surprising this man over and over. 

Unbuttoning his shirt, she looked up at him from between her lashes.  “You underestimate the scope of my interests, Bog. And I believe, the expression is turnabout is fair play.”

Eager to explore that small taste she’d had of his chest and shoulders downstairs, she pushed his shirt open, revealing the lightly colored chest hair that had alluded her all night.  Marianne petted him again, her fingers lightly stroking down his chest and over his abdomen.  His stomach quivered. 

She didn’t stop until he was completely undressed, stripped even of his boxer briefs so that he lay bare to her.  That he was uncomfortable didn’t escape Marianne as she stroked her fingers down his arms and kneeled between his legs.  She took her time with him, kissing soft paths down his chest and then rubbing her body with cat-like delight back up and over him until she could take his mouth in a soft, wet kiss, his erection trapped under her thigh. He rocked against her but allowed her to begin the process again, kissing his chest and then a little lower this time, just to the top of his abdomen before sliding her skin against his, back up into another kiss.  This time, his hand gripped the back of her thigh, holding her steady as he thrust up against her. 

Marianne murmured in appreciation, unable to keep from biting him again as she made another trip down his torso.  Chasing after the quiver that rolled through him, she dipped her tongue into his belly button.

“Marianne.”

The sound of her name bit off in the shadowed room pushed a hungry urgency under her skin.

 Meeting his eyes, Marianne pressed her breasts to his erection, slowly sliding up, making sure every inch of her from chest to pelvis stroked him before she lowered her mouth to his. 

His fingers snagged in her hair, angling her face as he fiercely kissed her, his teeth and tongue punishing the shape of her lips.  She wrapped her fingers around him, pulling a gentle stroke from base to tip and Bog gasped against her mouth, his head falling back to the pillow. He covered his face with his arm, panting hard, his body pushing into her hand as she took another pass over him.  “Please,” he whispered. “I need ye.”

“It’s okay,” she promised softly.  “I’m going to take care of you.”

Marianne moved slowly, bringing one of her legs up and over his chest until she straddled it, facing away from him. Bog made a wild noise underneath her. It took everything she had not to sink backwards onto his mouth, but to lean forward and instead, lower hers over him.  He instantly strained upwards, his large hands clutched at her hips, her waist, the back of her neck before unevenly petting her spine. She shivered, her mouth and hand twisting in a slow dance up and down his length.

Bog moaned, the unseen sound so close her core that her hips arched for him, straining back as far as she dare without letting go of her control over his body. 

He laughed, pressing the husky sound into the inside of her thigh. “You can’t have me both ways, love.  Choose one.”

Height differences be damned, Marianne growled. She’d have both, just not maybe at the same time. His teeth scored a line along her skin, making her legs tremble. 

Pulling her mouth off him she panted, neck arched as his hands teased up her thighs.  He took her hips, pulling her backwards towards his mouth, but she groaned and resisted, more desperate to please him than anything else.  She sucked him deep into her mouth again. His fingers dug into her, leaving bruises and Marianne only hollowed her cheeks and stroked him with her hands, driving him relentlessly towards the edge.

His body changed, the playfulness disappeared and a darker force drove his movements.  He clutched and pulled at her, teeth sinking into one thigh then the other as his hips twisted. Her name fell from his mouth, pleading and begging. Marianne fought as hard as he did, nursing and drawing on him until he shivered, his body pulling taut under her. She stroked his release between her lips then praised him silently with every soft sucking kiss up and down his length. 

For a moment, the room was silent.  Then she felt him stir. The hands that had fallen to the bed suddenly surrounded her waist again and she squeaked in surprise when he tugged her hard, drawing her straight back against his mouth.  Her laughter died on her lips and she closed her eyes, moaning softly before pressing her forehead into his abdomen, letting herself shamelessly enjoy the unhurried caress of his tongue.

 

Later, Marianne grumbled when Bog eased her boneless body around until she was positioned on a pillow. And she mumbled when removed her garter and stockings, leaving her completely bare. But she sighed when he lay down next to her, pulling her on top of him once again, this time chest to chest. 

He seemed content to hold her.  

And she wanted to crow with how good it felt to have been touched and tasted and adored by this wonderful man.  But she barely had the energy to card her fingers through his hair.  Eyes blurry, she stared out into the room, finally noticing the simple furnishings.  His desk was the most prominent piece of furniture and she supposed that was because it was stacked and surrounded with books.  The two bookshelves having overflowed many, many volumes ago. 

“What are you thinking?” He asked into her shoulder.

“Whether or not you would question my motives in sleeping with you if I go raid your book pile.”

He snorted, now pressing a soft bite into her shoulder. “There are worse reasons to have sex with someone, I suppose.”

“Mmm. You need more bookshelves.”

“Yeah.” His head twisted, following her line of sight. “I’m just here so little, I don’t really remember until it’s under my nose again.”

Marianne thought it would be easy to get used to the sound of him under her.  She yawned so hard her jaw clicked.  “Do you travel a lot then?”

“Every chance I get.  I prefer doing as much research in person as I can.  And occasionally I’m invited to give speeches at colleges around the country.”

Tension slipped through his body and Marianne tilted her head until she could look at him. “What is it?”

“I am an idiot.”

“Again? Worse than the condoms?” She was pinched for her teasing and though she laughed, she saw through his smile to the sudden worry clinging to his mouth and eyes. 

 “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow for a seven week trip to Manitoba.”

“And that makes you an idiot?”

He petted her hair and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have done this—not when I won’t be here for so long. It’s not fair to you.” His face closed up. “It’s—Marianne, I shouldn’t have done this.”     

“Bog.” She shifted over him before he could get up, gently bringing him back onto the pillows. “You’re panicking and I’m not really following.”

That blunt edge of sadness returned, aging him in the dim light.  “My last relationship failed spectacularly under the strain of my travels. It was too hard for her, too much, and I’m terrible at closing the gap of distance—I get busy and sometimes I’m so caught up in my work—really, I’m a terrible man to date—” He pressed his lips together, a hard swallow pulling his skin gaunt. He touched her cheek, his gaze stuck to that spot.

None of what he said made her even remotely regret her decision to be with him and that he should worry so much nearly made her laugh—but it was clear the fear was real for him.  Bog did worry that they were doomed before they’d even started. 

But what he hadn’t considered was her own tenaciousness in regards to what she wanted. And Marianne wanted him.

“What was she like?” she asked. “Did she travel a lot too?”

“No, not at all.  She was a paralegal, barely had weekends to herself let alone the time to travel.”

“Hmm. And did she share your same interests? Was she as big of a history nerd as you are?”

He rustled under her, a frown tipping some of the sadness off his brows. “I’m not a history nerd.”

“That’s too bad, because I most certainly am. So did she share your love for it?”

“Not really, no.  She was a terrific gardener, though. Her roses won blue ribbons at the fair every year, going as far as State a couple of times.”

She sounded boring.  Marianne bit her lip to keep from saying that to him, and instead concentrated on what was really important.  “So you love history, traveling and lingerie—don’t even try to deny it, we both know better.  And she was a homebody who probably spent an unhealthy amount of time around fertilizer.”

He tried not to smile, even as he rubbed her arms and sighed. “The point is, we cared about each other.  And I couldn’t uphold my end of things—don’t tell me you wouldn’t care if you didn’t hear from me for days at a time.”

“No, I’d probably be pissed.”

He nodded, the pain in his expression cut at her. “Exactly.”

“I’d want to hear about everything you were researching and studying and I’d be super peeved if you were holding back from me. I’m sure she called you all the time wanting to know about whatever long forgotten document you found that day and then asked you a thousand questions about it.”

“Well, no—she thought my research was boring. We never talked about that kind of stuff—”

Marianne arched her brow and Bog pressed his mouth shut. 

He stared at her as if he were seeing her again for the first time. “You’d make me scan it and email it to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep.” She leaned down to press her mouth against his chin. “And what’s more? I think you’d do it without me even asking, Bog.  You’d look forward to it—you’d want me involved, talking to you, discussing things with you.  I can’t imagine for one second that you’d ever forget about me.  You might get busy, you might get sidetracked, but you’ll never convince me that you wouldn’t always turn back to me and share the very thing that we both love the most—knowledge.”

A spark of hope burned behind his eyes and it somehow made his expression so broken that she reached for his face with her hands.

“It’s really important to me,” he whispered, catching her palm to his cheek. “That I not lose you.”

A flush of love swelled under her breast. She believed him—he could care less about the senator’s daughter and the well-dressed socialite, but he would fall to pieces if he lost the real her that so very few people had ever truly appreciated.  Rather than kiss him and find herself sidetracked into sex again, she put into words something she’d only just imagined possible that night. “We’ll email while you’re in Manitoba. Maybe the occasional phone call and I’ll definitely end up sending a handful of naughty pictures.”

His mouth quirked and she could feel him twitch in interest against her leg.

“But what,” she continued “are you doing after Manitoba?”

 He shrugged. “I don’t like planning trips one right after another—sometimes a week in one spot will stretch to three if I find something that interests me.”

 “Would you be willing to make an exception this one time? I want to go to Chumpuwah. And I think you’d make an excellent tour guide all things considered.” She pushed the little-too-long hair above his ear behind it, smoothing it down. “And if things work out, maybe I could travel with you after that to wherever you’re going next.”

 “You want to travel?”

 “I think I’ve let misplaced guilt keep me at home too long. Even if I don’t take part in the political role of the St-Rome family, I think Dawn’s going to no matter what.  And what’s more? She’ll be wonderful at it. People look to me as the eldest to fill that role, and Bog, I don’t want to.  I’m not made for it. I think removing myself for a while will give Dawn the chance to step up and take over—showing our father and his staff just what she’s really capable of.”

“Aye,” he nodded, the stiffness gone from his features.  “I see it in her too.”

 “So you’ll take me on as a lover slash girlfriend slash travel companion?”

 “Will you still text the occasional dirty picture even if we’re together?”

“Only to watch you blush.”

 He laughed, wrapping her up in his arms and rolling her under him.  “I can’t remember anymore why I thought you’d have six cats and exclusively wear baggy cardigans.”

“Cardigans?”

  “With the obligatory cat hair.”

“Oh.” She locked her arms over his shoulders, her leg teasing up over one of his. “I am way better than you imagined.”

“Something I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life.”

 Her heart hitched at the unspoken promise in his words and she met his mouth in a tender kiss.   


End file.
